You Hate Love
by Standout
Summary: Heh, original title. Right. *hides face* If you're not in EoR, you won't understand this unless you're an amazing deductive reasoner. Integral thinks about -blank-!


Stupid one-shot. My first Hellsing fic. Have mercy.  
The person Integral's thinking about is... not who you would expect. IT'S NOT ANDERSON! AH!  
Except if you participate in my friend Paula's Hellsing RPG.  
http://groups.yahoo.com/group/eyes_of_ruby  
Join just to find out who she's thinking about! XD  
Email me with your guesses?  
sing_the_requiem@hotmail.com  
Or not. -.-  
  
~~~  
  
You hate love.  
You're sitting at your desk, staring at the Caller ID next to the ringing telephone. With your glasses at this angle you can pretend it isn't him. You adjust them, pushing them higher up on your face, and the name comes into painfully clear focus.   
You still haven't picked up the phone.   
The ringing is giving you a migraine.  
It's absolutely filthy. You're trying to do your best in an international leadership position that you inherited from your dead father before you were of legal /driving/ age, with the aide of an elderly ex-fighter and a lethal vampire tied to you with bonds stronger then blood. (As if your life was a lark even before /him/.) Somewhere down the line when you're too young to know anything, you meet someone who from the second you see him you imagine him a prince in a fairy tale, someone who could maybe even take you away from your responsibilities and duties even if it is only in your mind. When your family is under attack and you are shell-shocked at the sight of your own mother dead, the prince rescued you- what a sight he must have been with a small, blood-soaked child in his arms- but he saved you nevertheless, despite appearances, and took you away from the sight that would plague you with nightmares for years to come. Still you thought of him with nothing more then gratitude; he was just another alliance and friendly face when you occasionally crossed paths. Just a field worker, an assassin, a /Catholic/ that you would never consider anything more then a business associate.  
Then this person, not any more special then anyone else in the world, does something like give you an exasperated look to you at a conference when you are both under siege by men who are both more wiser and more experienced then you are; as a teenaged Hellsing leader, you are a prime target after all. But whenever the Knights aimed their dirty looks at you or spat a derogatory comment your way, he would be gazing at you from the other end of the table while receiving the exact same third degree, his men questioning /his/ capability as leader; his being a field-worker promoted to the leader by the Pope himself made him a prime target as well. Your blue eyes and his bright green would lock in a silent camaraderie and you would both fire back at the Knights with well-phrased, cutting responses, leaving them open-mouthed and shocked, with no more valid arguments left.   
After the conferences he would catch your eye as the Knights were grumbling, arranging their papers; as you looked up from organizing your own briefcase to leave he would flash you an absolutely charming smile and get out of the room before you did, leaving you standing there staring after him like a ninny with a pencil stuck in your hair and bags under your eyes from going the previous night without sleep, having used the precious hours to prepare the half-witted responses for the arguments you knew you would receive.  
Over the next few years as you gained experience and years, the white roses with lyrics to Italian songs that arrived unsigned at your door and the beautifully crafted, intricate rosary that was on your desk when you returned from a business meeting began to break down the strong walls that you had built around yourself over time, something that the Knights, with their pointed insults towards your capability as leader of Hellsing, had never achieved. This man, who would bring you a miniature replica of a painting that he knew you loved, and would play your favorite classical piece on the violin when he knew you were just in the next room, was aware of how to break down your defenses, and you were wary of why; it must be of some kind of political gain, you kept telling yourself, don't let yourself get your hopes up for something that can never be.  
And yet he persisted, with phone calls, small gifts in your briefcase, and such. After a conference he approached you and asked for the pleasure of your company for coffee. The coffee turned into a walk, the walk turned into a religious debate in your office, the religious debate turned into a softer conversation, which turned into his moving very close to you, which turned into a complete halt in the conversation, which turned to a situation that you didn't care to describe, which eventually led to waking up in your bed and finding him gone.  
You declined from the idea of phoning him to ask where he had gone; a more logical question would to be ask where your own /head/ had gone that night. Refusing to come to terms with the immature teenaged girl that he had brought out in you, you decided rather to pretend that it had never happened, and obviously he felt that way as well. The next time you met for business purposes, he was mocking and cruel, insulting your gender, your religion and anything else he could grasp at- but he did not mention that night. Neither did you. And it had been that way ever since. You did not like the person you became when you were with him that night- that needy, clinging, weak girl. Nor did you like the person that he had morphed into since your night together; he had gone from charming, well-mannered admirer and comrade to selfish, manipulative bastard for no apparent reason. Perhaps you would take it up with Alucard.  
You pick up the phone. 


End file.
